


Amongst the Acting Powers

by et2brute



Category: DC Animated Universe, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Smallville, Superman: The Animated Series
Genre: Businessmen, M/M, Why isn't Tony/Lex a thing, they should SO be a thing!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:53:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/et2brute/pseuds/et2brute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex has taken a professional interest in Stark Industries.  It's not what you think.  Or maybe it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: Okay, so like. This happened in my brain when I finished watching _Superman: The Animated Series_. Except then I started watching _Smallville_ , and Michael Rosenbaum's Lex Luthor has not only become my canon, but my way of life or something. I want to lay the sword of truth and beauty at his feet. I want to embrace him and tell him I'll never lock him out, and that he'll never be alone, that he is loved.
> 
> But these things would be lies. I'm only up to Season Four, but I really feel that Lex will always be alone; will never know that he is loved; and will eventually stop trying to be a decent person, because everyone always assumes the worst of him regardless of what he does.
> 
> _Amongst the Acting Powers_ is an amalgamation of the DC Animated Universe, _Smallville_ , and bits and pieces of _Young Justice_. It also draws very heavily from the Marvel Cinematic Universe, most notably all three _Iron Man_ movies and _Avengers_.
> 
> Assume Lex and Clark's _Smallville_ backstory, but their DCAU present. Uh, we'll pretend that aliens in the DCAU aren't general public knowledge until after the Chitauri happen in _Avengers_. We'll say Tony is mid forties and Lex is thirty-ish. FAST AND LOOSE, GUYS.
> 
> Oh, and Mercy is Mercy from DCAU, because I haven't met her yet in _Smallville_. And there will probably be some peripheral Superbat and unrequited Superhusbands. Also it's assumed that Lex knows everyone's identities, because he is a supercreeper and doesn't fuck around.
> 
> I know this is confusing and insane. I'd apologize, but I literally don't have it in me to do so. Shamelessly, I present:
> 
> The One Where Tony Stark and Lex Luthor Are Bros.
> 
> **On a somewhat related note:** as I've been focusing on original fiction, it is not likely that I will be continuing to update most of the stories here. If you're interested, I share a creative collective with my partner at [war + mercy](http://www.warandmercy.com). Stories, illustrations, poetry, et cetera. If original fiction's not your thing, then farewell and thanks for reading my stories on Ao3!

"You can understand," Stark says, easy and matter-of-fact and only twenty minutes late to their meeting, "why my gut instinct is to assume an ulterior motive." He lounges back in his chair and splays his hands on the plush armrests, makes himself right at home in Lex's office.

Lex can't decide what's more off-putting: the fact that an arms manufacturer cum superhero cum environmental conservationist would automatically assume the worst of him, or that such a thing could still bother Lex after all this time.

In another place, long ago, he'd fought it; but now, he is all of him Lionel Luthor's son. He has more than lost the right to expect anyone to treat him otherwise. That ship launched when he left Smallville for good.

"Probably you're after something dangerous and highly weaponizable," Stark continues when Lex doesn't speak, making a complicated gesture with his hands. It might be the bastard amalgamation of pulling a trigger and pantomiming an explosion; it might be that he's just a restless man by nature. "That's how these conversations usually go."

The man does love the sound of his own voice, Lex thinks wearily, looking forward to the soothing silence of an empty office. He studies the flashy suit and the tinted sunglasses, the vibrant energy of Stark's spillover personality. The way he hardly appears a day over thirty-five, when Lex knows for a fact he's pushing fifty.

They've moved in some of the same circles for most of Lex's life, and the last time their paths had crossed—five years ago, give or take, at a charity event in Gotham—Stark had certainly looked his age. Lex files the observation away for later scrutiny.

"You should know, if you don't already—in which case, Lex, what rock have _you_ been under—that present-day SI has very specific policies regarding weapons. Zero-tolerance policies." Stark hitches one of his heels up on Lex's desk and crosses his ankle over his knee.

"I'm aware, Mister Stark." Lex, somewhat irritated and vaguely intrigued by Stark's casual use of his first name, considers whether or not to take offense. He ultimately dismisses it; there are loftier aims at present, and he's almost certain that the overall lack of professionalism isn't posturing. It's more an impersonal, generalized disregard for socially acceptable behavior in polite company. "And, as I am sure _you_ are aware, sometimes one gains the greatest reputation for the least of his ventures."

"So you're telling me," Stark says thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on the floor-to-ceiling windows that open to Metropolis, put her on display like a collection of precious stones, "that your humanitarian efforts somehow cancel out the fact that LexCorp double-deals with base criminals, terrorists, and extradimensional monsters? Allegedly, of course." He never once looks at the clock, several meters left of center on Lex's massive office wall, but he's glanced over his own shoulder twice now.

He doesn't like having his back to the door. Interesting.

"What I'm suggesting, Mister Stark," Lex says in careful, measured tones, "is that LexCorp isn't the only company with a bright future and a sordid past."

Stark stares at him hard, his brown eyes glowing dull gold in the afternoon sun. Lex prefers natural light to fluorescent; weather permitting, he'll often leave the lights off. Aesthetically, this now serves to warm Stark's pale skin and highlight the deep mahogany of his hair, pool on the rich curve of his mouth. "So this really is just a social call."

"Not at all," Lex says, inclining his head. "Stark Industries has become the number one name in clean energy. Is it so unusual to take an interest? From a business standpoint."

"It shouldn't be," Stark says, not without some bitterness. Hmm. "Usually we get people fishing around for backdoor military contracts. No one believes we don't manufacture anymore."

"Once a dealer," Lex murmurs. "And I'm sure it doesn't help that you still create weapons for yourself."

" _Prosthetics_ ," Stark insists, leaning forward. His feet fall to the floor with a dull thud.

"To be sure."

"Don't patronize me," Stark sighs, like it's an old argument he's long lost interest in. The general white noise of his body language intensifies: a heel knocking against Lex's marble floor, blunt fingers drumming on the edge of his desk. When he glances toward the door, there isn't even a pretext that he's doing anything but mapping an escape route.

"Then we have nothing further to discuss," Lex says, standing, "as that was the entire purpose for this meeting."

Stark's eyes lock onto his in surprise, flashing like bright pennies. Then he's getting to his feet too, bracing his hands on the endless surface of Lex's polished, gleaming desk. He's going to leave handprints, Lex is sure.

"You wanna buy stock in SI?"

"I want to integrate arc reactor technology into the Metropolis power grid."

"Metropolis," Tony says, curiosity written sharply into his body language with broad strokes.

"Yes."

"Not just LexCorp HQ."

"No."

Stark looks baffled. He straightens, smoothing his hands errantly over the clean lines of his suit, and gives Lex a once-over before stalking toward the windows. He cuts a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the luminous city. "Look, Lex," he says at length. "Arc technology isn't a money game. There are startup costs and core replacement costs—the one that powers Stark Tower goes for about a year—and yeah, it'll save you boatloads as replacement technology on operating costs you already _have_. But a city? Any cash LexCorp might save by phasing out traditional energy would go right back into support expenditures for running the rest of Metropolis. You'd be doing whole lot of people a favor just to break even."

"Is that something that concerns you?" Lex asks curiously, folding his hands. "Getting nothing in return for a corollary service while pursuing greater aspirations?"

Stark turns his head sharply, incredulous, sunlight tracing the curve of his cheek. "Of course not. But _you_ —"

"Could stand to improve LexCorp's public image, apparently," Lex interrupts dryly. "In all honesty, Mister Stark, your particular brand of alternative energy would save my company millions annually. I have my thumb in a lot of pies, as it were."

Stark considers this. Then he says, idly, "It's my understanding that you own half of Metropolis."

"That would be an accurate estimation." It's actually closer to two-thirds.

Stark says nothing, but there's a subtle shift in his expression as he looks back out over the city: like he's seeing it for the first time, maybe.

"Please understand, Mister Stark—Metropolis is my home. Her best interests are my best interests. And a populace subsisting on free energy has it benefits. Gratitude, for one. Opportunity for growth. Greater disposable income."

"What's weird to me," Stark says, turning around, "personally, is that what you're saying is a sensible move for a philanthropist, ethical businessman, or humanitarian. But it doesn't fit my perception of _you_. I mean, christ," Tony adds, exasperated, "you're—what, thirty? Still just a kid. It's too early for you to have a change of heart and join the good guys."

Lex moves out from behind his desk to join Stark by the windows. He leaves very little space between them, a casual test of proximity just to see if it makes the man uncomfortable; if perhaps Stark will flinch or step away. It does neither of these things. Lex is taller by about three inches, but Stark will not be cowed. In fact, when he tilts his head to stare critically at Lex's face, their arms brush.

There's a difference between self-servitude and sociopathy. Lex mulls it over for a moment. "I will, now and always, prioritize my interests and the interests of LexCorp above all else. That is not a secret. That is a practicality." He meets Stark's eyes. "But that does not mean I would actively _avoid_ helping others, especially if it came at little or no cost to myself."

They stand there together, looking out over Lex's city, for long enough that Lex isn't sure Stark will respond at all. But then he turns, mouth twisted in a strange half-grin. His eyes are bright with understanding, almost conspiratorial, and Lex finds himself leaning back in surprise.

"Does anyone else know?" Stark asks, with a kind of energy that Lex can't identify or comprehend. It seems to fill the room.

"Excuse me?"

"That you're an _antivillain_ ," Stark says, showing teeth. "You know, like an antihero, except—"

"I gathered," Lex sighs, quickly losing interest. "Now, about the arc technology—"

Stark reaches for Lex's elbow, his fingers thin but firm, his palm warm through the fabric of Lex's suit. "I've never met one before. I didn't even know they were a thing. Can they be a thing?"

"Mister Stark—"

"Tony," Stark says. "Call me Tony. If you have your people forward the electrical grid schematics to my office, Pepper can get someone started on the numbers. She's the one that runs things these days. You'll have a bid on your desk tomorrow."

Lex stares at him.

"What is it, eleven? We should get lunch. Any good bars around?"

"Mister Stark," Lex tries again.

"Tony," Tony insists, pulling out his phone and fluttering his fingers over the touchscreen. "Looks like there's a pub two blocks from here. You can tell me all about your bad-guy-good-deeds psychosis. I be it's fascinating stuff."

Lex presses his lips together. Then he presses the intercom button on his desk. "Reschedule my afternoon appointments," he says firmly. "And tell Mercy to pull the black Ferrari around."

Tony grins, slow and sharp and bright.

* * *

"Gotta say you surprised me," Tony's slurring hours later, his suit jacket folded over the backrest of his barstool. His cuffs are unbuttoned, sleeves folded up over his forearms; collar open, tie slightly rumpled. He practically gleams with affected debauchery, an impression that is only enhanced by the gin and tonic held loosely in his animated fingers. "Most execs, they hear, 'Stark's not making weapons anymore' and think it means, 'Stark _says_ he's not making weapons anymore, but _surely_ that doesn't apply to _me_ ', and they just. They keep coming, they keep calling, they get offended because we won't deal with them."

"Even if you were," Lex says over his highball, "it certainly wouldn't reflect well on Stark Industries if you made it a habit to act in blatant opposition to your public statement of purpose."

"Exactly!" Tony huffs. "I mean, questioning my morals is one thing, I totally get that—but assuming I'd be an _idiot_ about it? Come on, man. Telling lies in the public domain 's just bad business. I'm insulted."

"Don't be too hard on the little people. They don't know any better." Lex crosses his legs. He had the bar cleared out around two, once he realized Tony wasn't interested in leaving until he smelled like a distillery. The only other company they have is the bartender, and she makes herself scarce unless she's mixing drinks.

Tony's phone makes a small, starry sound. "Ugh. Conference call. Gimme fifteen minutes?" He steps outside, and Lex uses the time to make a few calls of his own. He also cancels his evening appointments.

The idea of waiting on someone else's business is so novel that Lex isn't even angry about it.

"Sorry about that," Tony says, reclaiming his seat with remarkable grace. The slight wobble as he turns to face Lex spoils it, as does the hand Lex automatically reaches out to steady him. Tony pats Lex's knuckles where they curve over his shoulder, a well-practiced and nonverbal I'm-okay-nothing-to-see-here-but-thanks-anyway, and Lex lets his arm fall.

Then he takes a long pull from his highball, trying to remember the last person he'd been so casually physical with. The answer that comes to mind churns his stomach; he dismisses it abruptly.

"You'll have the bid in the morning," Tony says, tucking his phone away. "Where were we?"

"I believe," Lex sighs, "you were going on about sunglasses."

"Don't you think it's a weird coincidence?"

"That we commission the same designer? No."

"I just feel like we have a lot in common," Tony says. "You should come to New York. We have aliens now."

I'm good on that front, thanks, Lex thinks sourly.

"I'll show you Avengers Tower," Tony offers.

Lex raises his head. " _Are_ you still an Avenger?" He'd read, briefly, about Iron Man's semi-retirement. Aldrich Killian's research with Extremis had been more relevant to his interests at the time, however.

"Well yeah," Tony says airily, in a way that implies he's not really all that sure. "I'm just—not really on the field much these days. More behind-the-scenes."

"A hero-consultant," Lex deadpans.

Tony scrunches up his face. "Well. I mean, I had this great girlfriend, so."

"So you dismantled your state-of-the-art— _prosthetic_ —equipment," Lex muses. The thought of all that glorious tech going to waste breaks his heart. "Brilliant. I'm sure you've never regretted it once. Especially during your very public breakup—what, three months after the Mandarin incident was resolved?"

He almost regrets the cheap shot; it isn't worth either of them. Lex wonders if he's crossed a line, dragging Pepper Potts into a conversation about sunglasses and vanity license plates—but then, the Iron Man suits were a fucking _gift_ to modern flight mechanics and weapons design. Lex entitles himself to a small amount of residual frustration.

Regardless, Tony only grins and leans in close. He smells like rubbing alcohol and Giorgio Armani. "You following me in the tabloids, Lex?"

"When the media circus that is US national news has its teeth in a Tony Stark story," Lex says, long-suffering, "short of sequestering myself in the wilderness until the frenzy passes, there can be no escape from the messy details of your personal life."

Tony doesn't laugh, but a smirk curls his mouth. Neither of them speak for long moments. Finally, he says, "I don't regret it. I can always build more. And at least this way I know I did everything I could." He shakes his head ruefully. It's the first time Lex has seen him with anything approaching sobriety, and this after Tony's been drinking hard liquor for two hours. "I had nothing left to give up for her. Iron Man—that _was_ me. That was everything."

Tony's voice has gone dark, has sunk into the joints of Lex's elbows, has settled deep into the bones of his back. There's something here, growing between them in the empty places; something Lex half-recognizes, like an old familiar scent, a memory of safety from a past life.

Lex has had a lot to drink today.

Beside him, Tony's peering thoughtfully into an empty shot glass. "I tried my best and it didn't work out. No harm, no foul, no hurt feelings. Just a lot of exhausting paperwork."

"Speaking of Miss Potts," Lex tries, as delicately as he's able under the circumstances, "I was honestly expecting to meet with her today. You were a surprise."

Tony nods vacantly. "Yeah, technically the CEO handles corporate monsters like LexCorp. But, whatever, I don't have a lot on my hands now that the suits are gone—there are no earthly crises to keep me otherwise occupied—I was curious to hear what you had to say." He shrugs, his fingers curving over the polished wood of the bartop. He taps at the finish with his nail. "Pick any reason you like, Lex. What's it matter? I'm here now."

Lex says nothing, his eyes trained to his drink. It's an effort not to stare at Tony's hands: he's wearing his MIT ring, but nothing else. Even his wrists are bare. And he won't stop fiddling with everything in reach.

"So—fashion accessories, fancy cars, nice suits, binge drinking. I think we're up to the 'daddy-never-loved-me' conversation."

"Not on a first date." While the sentiment is sharp, the words are not; but then Lex realizes what he's said. He hazards at glance at Tony's face.

Tony's smirking at him. "Next time, then. How about steamy, antagonistic romances? I hear a lot of rumors about you and the big blue—"

"That," Lex says firmly, "I will absolutely not discuss."

"Back to ethics, then." Tony doesn't seem offended in the slightest, switches gears like he's changing lanes in his Audi R8 . He traces the pads of his fingers through pools of condensation and asks, "So, what, you clothe your naked anti-villainy, seem a saint when most you play the devil? Am I getting warm?"

Lex sips his drink, the perspiring glass cool against his mouth. "Though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man," he quotes experimentally, "it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain."

Tony smiles, surprised and pleased, luminous in the dim, deserted bar. "Well, there's your problem, Lex," he says softly, tossing back a shot of aged whiskey. There are three more glasses lined up next to his gin and tonic, each gleaming a different hue of amber. "Assuming anyone on this earth has the capacity to take another human at face value."

Lex knows all about living as a caricature of yourself just so people get the right idea. Subtlety is often lost on the masses. He turns to mention something along these lines, but Tony's squinting blearily at the last half of his gin and tonic. Then he's reaching for his phone.

"Think I'm gonna call it a night," he says, clapping an unsteady hand on Lex's shoulder.

"I can drop you off," Lex says. He doesn't even think about it first, a fact he should seriously examine later.

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Nice of you to offer, but I gotta make—uh, whoever replaced Happy—work for his salary. And, no offense, but Mercy terrifies me."

"Then she's doing her job admirably."

"I feel like she'll gut me if she catches me staring," Tony agonizes, "but it's _really hard_ not to."

"And on that note," Lex says with a short laugh, standing and pulling Tony carefully to his feet. "I'll keep in touch about the contract."

"I'll be in town until Sunday," Tony says. "We can have date number two. I expect full disclosure." He leans in close, eyebrows scrunched together thoughtfully. "Hey. I think you're actually smiling."

"I do that sometimes," Lex says.

"Well. You've got my number." Tony staggers out of the bar. Lex watches him go, then finishes his drink. He's surprised to find that the new silence isn't appealing in the least.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Please don't call until I'm sober, you are a very intense man and I can't even handle you right now."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would suggest rereading the first chapter (and the notes!) if you've only read the sketch version. It's definitely changed and expanded.

"Are you low-balling me?" Lex snaps when the call connects.

"Jesus _fuck_ ," Tony says blearily, "it's—it's not even nine, why are you—"

"I've been researching your production facilities for the last two months, Stark," Lex says stiffly. "My materials and labor cost estimates are accurate to the nearest hundred—"

"I just, I really need you to call me back. Give me an hour. Give me two. Fuck."

Lex hangs up, seething.

Lex calls back exactly forty-two minutes later.

" _What_ ," Tony whines, voice thick with sleep.

"This project estimate should be three times higher," Lex hisses. "At _least_. Do you need to fire someone? Is Stark Industries hemorrhaging money?"

"Oh my god, are you actually complaining that it's too _cheap_?"

Lex glares down at the beautifully prepared proposal on his desk. Some poor designer had no doubt spent a long, sleepless night prettying it up. "I had a budget for this endeavor. There was a committee appointed to oversee allocation of funds. There were color-coded spreadsheets and two very concise pie charts. As we speak," Lex growls, "A team of lawyers is preparing tax documentation. Documentation that will be rendered obsolete when I provide them with your terms, which are literally insane."

"I told you it wasn't a money game!" Stark mutters miserably. He sounds muffled, like his face is pressed into a pillow.

"Why would you sell to me _at cost_?"

"You are a lunatic. There are no antivillains, and I revise my earlier assessment. Please don't call until I'm sober, you are a very intense man and I can't even handle you right now."

* * *

Lex keeps the energy proposal on the corner of his desk until about noon, studiously working through anything and everything else that might require his personal attention. When he runs out of busy work, he cancels his lunch meeting with the mayor and orders in. Then he reads through the proposal for the fifth and final time.

It's not that Lex has any problem at all applying pressure to make business deals more profitable; it's not that he hasn't taken advantage of poor negotiation skills, misinformation, inexperience, and—on at least a dozen occasions—his personal sex appeal to keep price tags low and incentives high.

What Lex has a problem with is getting something for nothing. It's been programmed since birth, into his bones, in every conceivable context, that there's no such thing as a free lunch; that there are no gifts, only IOUs; that this deal is, fundamentally and overtly, too good to be true. It triggers all kinds of internal alarms.

There has to be something Stark _wants_ , another side to this that Lex, for the life of him, can't pin down. He's never been in the habit of making deals without perfectly articulated terms.

Briefly exasperated within the quiet, carefully structured confines of his mind, he passes on the bid to his lawyers and forwards a rough outline of intent to the City Council. It's mostly formality; he owns roughly half of the elected officials. He'll get the approval, and hold off on the project until Stark gives him a straight answer.

* * *

"I didn't know your first name was Alexander," Tony says, much later. He'd charmed his way into Lex's office without so much as a phone call, sleek and put-together beneath his iconically mussed hair.

Lex makes a mental note to have a very serious conversation with his secretary and head of security; possibly terminal. But then he notices that Tony hasn't yet taken off his sunglasses. He's probably hungover.

Lex forgets about administrative reorganization in favor of a tiny, amused smirk.

"Anthony Edward Stark," he says lightly, setting aside a stack of patents pending. "Can I help you?"

"You didn't call me back. Also: why are you in the office on a Saturday?"

Lex blinks slowly. He fights the urge to check the date on his watch. He says, very clearly, "It's Friday."

"Oh. Huh," Tony says. "Thought maybe I'd slept through."

"If you have a contract modifications—," Lex begins, because he is a very busy man and Tony has a way of throwing a wrench in his hyperorganized schedule while appearing to do nothing whatsoever.

"Oh, no, that's a done deal. I mean, as soon as you sign it. I'm not here about that, I'm here about the antique store off 53rd."

Lex waits, but Stark seems more interested in fiddling with the rose-cut paperweight on his desk than their actual, real-life conversation.

"What is this? It's not ruby."

"No," Lex agrees, "it isn't." Too heavy, not enough luster. A texture like metal, but clear as flawless crystal.

"Hmm," Tony says, setting it back down. Lex's fingers itch to reach out and straighten it, line up the faceted edges exactly as before; but then he sees that Tony has already done this. "Anyway, about this antique store. And dinner."

"I have another three hours of work ahead of me," Lex points out, glancing at the clock on his laptop.

"So I'll pick you up at seven," Tony says, shrugging.

"Eight," Lex allows, giving in. "Though I doubt your antique store will still be open."

"I'm sure we'll figure something out," Tony grins, giving a little two-fingered wave as he exits the office.

Lex writes sharply-worded emails and makes pointed and ungentle phone calls until six o'clock. Then he signs off on four separate charitable donations. Because he takes perverse pleasure in giving Bruce indigestion, one of them is for the Martha Wayne Foundation; he makes sure to include a heartfelt letter along with the check and the documentation.

The altruists always find Luthor money distasteful, even if it benefits a good cause. It is Lex's well-informed opinion that this is irrelevant and counterproductive, but orders of magnitude separate his sensibilities from those of men like Bruce Wayne.

And Clark Kent, but that is an avenue of thought to navigate only under duress.

After Lex has finished, he has a fresh suit sent up. Then he takes a shower in the corporate fitness center.

By seven-thirty, adjusting his silver silk tie and smoothing the lapels of his charcoal-and-aubergine blazer, Lex studies the sharp angles of his face in the mirror and wonders if he's trying too hard. Then he wonders who, exactly, he means to impress.

He's half made up his mind to change back into his previous clothing when there's a spastic knock on the door. Tony walks in without waiting for an answer.

"You're early," Lex says, turning to face him as he crosses the room.

"So are you." Tony takes in the lack of paperwork on Lex's desk. Then he takes in Lex, and his eyebrows shoot up. "Lookin' good, by the way."

Lex gives him a brief, perfunctory smile and tries not to look pleased. "I assume you have a plan for the evening?"

"Something like that," Tony says, catching his elbow. "Hey, can we trade ties? I don't know if I can really get away with slate and powder blue."

He can't, in fact. Lex purses his lips for two thoughtful seconds. He accepts that, perhaps, silver is quite bright against the almost-black of his pressed collar. But it would bring out the high polish of Tony's pale Rolex. "That's fine."

He reaches up to remove the tie, but Tony bats his hands away and works the knot loose with quick fingers. "Good to know you're a man of reason," he comments.

"That is the image I try to project," Lex replies, holding very still.

When they're all sorted out, Tony ushers him through the doors and onto the elevator. In the confined space, he keeps catching whiffs of Tony's cologne. It's different from earlier, subtle spice and citrus, and without the augmentation of grain alcohol.

He supposes he should appreciate that while it lasts.

"So if you don't mind slipping your security detail for a couple of hours," Tony says when they get outside, unlocking a shiny yellow Lamborghini from his key fob, "I drive like a lunatic."

Lex slides onto the supple crimson leather of the passenger seat. It's a nice night, and Tony has the top down. "Is that meant to be an incentive?"

"You," Tony grins fiercely, sliding on his sunglasses and shifting her into gear, "have no idea."

* * *

Tony takes corners in excess of fifty miles an hour. He weaves through traffic like a California motorcyclist, sticking to the raised Metropolis skyways for the sheer rush of wind in his hair. He blows so many yellow lights that Lex feels the need to instruct Mercy, surreptitiously and via text, that under no circumstances should any notices of offense for STARK 17 ever leave the traffic control review desk.

They barrel through a tunnel, the LED floodlights one long, unbroken blur in the gloom before the sky opens back up. It takes Lex awhile to pin down the sense of nostalgia: that Tony drives exactly the way Lex did at twenty-one. It takes longer for Lex to realize that Tony must really miss flying.

They get to the restaurant at a quarter to nine, and the maître d' takes them to the back of the house. There are two bottles of chilled pinot bianco waiting for them, and a low-hanging lamp casting the edges of the intimate booth in shadow.

"It was entirely too difficult," Tony complains idly, after the wine is poured and they're left alone, "to find a single five-star restaurant in this leviathan of a city that LexCorp doesn't already own."

"It's a private establishment," Lex murmurs, looking over the menu with approval. He hasn't eaten here in several months, and their pasta primavera is the best he's had outside of Sicily. Something to do with the oil, maybe, but he's never managed to replicate it. "It's been in the Bessolo family for three generations."

"So you stay your hand out of respect for the old country?" Tony asks, squinting through his sunglasses. Lex suppresses the urge to reach across the table and slide them off. His own are pointedly tucked into the pocket of his blazer.

"Are you insinuating that I would pressure Miss Leoni into selling off her son's birthright?" Lex meets Tony's eyes, radiating innocence. "That would be illegal."

Tony snorts, drinking his wine like he's drinking beer. He only slows down after the first three swallows. "I'm saying there has to be a reason you don't want it."

"There is."

Tony opens his mouth to ask the obvious question, but their waiter makes an appearance.

"Bruschetta?" Lex asks.

"Sure," Tony says absently, skimming the menu.

"And I'll have the pasta primavera," Lex adds.

"I'll be sure to mention your preferences to the chef, Mister Luthor," the waiter says. "And for you, Mister Stark?"

Tony flashes his crooked, in-a-hurry smile. "Same." Then, when they're alone again, "What reason."

"Tony—"

"It doesn't make enough money? It'll lose its yuppie customer base if your name's on the corporate letterhead?"

"—take off your sunglasses," Lex says.

Tony does so, setting them aside without folding them. Lex waits approximately twelve seconds while Tony taps his fingernail against the table and talks about mom and pop shops. Then he reaches over and tucks the arms neatly beneath the lenses.

Tony stops talking. Lex looks up.

"Or maybe you don't like the place," Tony murmurs neutrally.

Lex shakes out his napkin with careful fingers and settles it over his lap. "To the contrary. This is one of my favorite restaurants."

Tony drinks his wine.

"You don't have to possess something to appreciate it." Sometimes the things you enjoy most are the things you never get to keep.

Tony watches him keenly. Then he admits, somewhat subdued, "I would not have expected that from you."

Lex casts about for an explanation, disguising his hesitation with a sip of wine. He settles on, "Have you read _A Picture of Dorian Gray_?"

"No?" Tony looks at him blankly.

Lex sighs. "Well, the main character falls in love with an actress. She's Juliet, she's Ophelia, she's any number of classic Shakespearean romance icons. She's gifted beyond anything he's ever seen, which is what attracted him to begin with. But once she falls in love with him, she can't act anymore."

"Just like that?" Tony asks, skimming his fingertip over the lip of his glass.

Lex tries to get to the point. There are more than enough people in his acquaintance that find his abstractions tedious. "Her rationale was that she had finally experienced the truth of romantic love and could no longer bring herself to fabricate it. So the next time he came to see her, she went through the motions like a lifeless doll. She thought she was making a grand gesture."

"And?"

Lex gives up. "The food here is great. If I buy them out, the family recipes would vanish into the aether, contract or no. I would have a good approximation, certainly, but it wouldn't be what I wanted."

Tony slides his thumb against the stem of his glass, quick and thoughtful. "Did you just compare a business venture to Oscar Wilde."

Lex purses his lips.

"Your metaphor is not symmetrical. Sibyl Vane's catalyst was love. Buyouts typically engender animosity."

"The two are not mutually exclusive. The point I'm trying to make is tha t the very act of possessing a thing can fundamentally alter it. If the quality that first draws you in is irretrievably lost—," Lex pauses thoughtfully. "So you _have_ read it?"

"I may have the caught the movie," Tony murmurs. He's still shifting around restlessly, picking at his napkin and scanning the restaurant, tapping the toe of a polished shoe against the table stand. He periodically nudges his heel up against Lex's instep. Lex chooses to ignore this.

He's about to quote something almost-clever but ultimately trite, like, All art is quite useless; but then Tony's phone rings.

"Pep, hi," Tony answers brightly, loosening his tie. He meets Lex's eyes while he listens, a faint frown creasing his brow. "Sunday. No. Yes. Well, he still has to sign, right?"

Lex raises an eyebrow. The contract is with Lex's lawyers. He's due to sign it in the morning, after they've gone through it, and Tony doesn't need to be present for that.

"Well, the programming will take, like, two seconds. Don't we have a department for that? Fine, okay, all right. I'll have the beta up and running by—is seven okay? Fine, six-thirty. But I'm not flying back until Sunday. Okay. Yeah. Bye."

Tony hangs up, reaching for his drink sheepishly.

Lex leans in and asks curiously, "Did you lie to your CEO so you could hide out in Metropolis for a few more days?"

"It's not like I can't work remotely," Tony complains. "She's not my girlfriend anymore, but I'm still on a leash. She's not even my PA! I should be allowed to take a vacation now and then, I'm the richest guy on the planet."

Lex glances at him sharply. "I believe that's a matter of debate."

* * *

"Well, if I include the accounts in the Cayman Islands—"

"No tax shelters," Tony says smugly. "And nothing derivative of illegal research or funding. Fruit of the poisonous tree!"

The problem, Lex thinks dazedly, is that you allocate two hours to have dinner with Tony Stark, and suddenly it's approaching midnight while you argue about net worth over tiramisu.

It is very good tiramisu, though.

"Then no profits from weapons sales," Lex says flatly. "Howard Stark started off as a war-profiteer. World War Two was the poster child for illegal research."

"Fine, but then _you_ can't use military contracts—"

"Those were completely legal transactions!"

"But rayguns are completely _il_ legal, even if Uncle Sam's the one footing the bill!"

They stare at eachother for a long moment. Lex runs a tongue over his lip thoughtfully, wondering when the third bottle of pinot bianco appeared—and when they managed to polish it off. "Offshore holdings?"

Tony winces. "Yeah, should we consider that tax evasion?"

"If it involves taking advantage of another country's tax laws to manipulate reported earnings," Lex muses, "then yes , probably."

"What if the tax laws are stricter?"

Lex shoots him a blank look. "Is that question honestly relevant?"

Tony exhales loudly. "No, I guess not. Shit."

"Well. Since we're not including liquidation value of assets—"

"Or trust funds," Tony sighs. "Or stock options."

They both pause for an inordinately long time. When Tony starts to stare unnervingly at his cloth napkin, producing a gleaming crimson and gold fountain pen, Lex sighs and pulls a scratch pad from the pocket of his duster. He tears out a few sheets for himself before passing it over.

They take about five minutes, Tony frowning thoughtfully when he finally looks up. "I think—I think my accountant is a criminal."

"Ten dollars and change," Lex says, appalled. It's the dollar-a-year salary he's drawn from LexCorp over the last decade.

"Nine thirty-seven," Tony counters, swallowing. "Looks like you're buying."

Lex clears his throat. "I can expense it."

Tony stares at him. Then he laughs and laughs. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Why do you have my medical records?" He asks in quiet, lethal tones._

"Why do you have my medical records?" He asks in quiet, lethal tones.

"Lex. What a nice surprise," Tony greets, standing and wiping his hands on a grease-streaked towel. He doesn't look nervous; he certainly doesn't look guilty.

It's been a month since Tony's visit to Metropolis, and even though the progress on the power grid restructuring project has been encouraging, they haven't spoken for the better part of three weeks. If Lex were paranoid—or _honest_ , a deep and nasty part of him supplies—he'd almost entertain the idea that Tony is avoiding him.

Radio silence is not something Lex generally encounters or tolerates, and while Tony organizes the packets and papers currently fanned out over a scarred metal desk, Lex takes a moment to pointedly reaffirm that he is not a man guided by his fixations and obsessions. This is a thing he tells himself often and harshly, because he _used_ to be that man. It hadn't ended well.

His mental checklist to rein in his—tendencies—goes something like, Are my actions consistent with the information I have been given; Am I rationalizing unusual activity to resolve a perceived or irrelevant conflict; Is my behavior contextually appropriate.

As it stands, Lex has taken no action other than to notice that Tony has not contacted him; Lex has official business in New York, and certainly did not make a special effort to confront Tony; their last conversation was perfectly amicable, so there was no reason not to pay a visit to Avengers Tower. It would have been rude if he didn't, given that he's already in New York.

So here is Tony, dressed down in old jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt, a grimy billionaire in a vast underground garage that doubles as a workshop. He isn't anything like most other people that Lex has the displeasure of working with. He does exactly at he pleases, at home in his own space. It's a comfort, and a welcome change, to see that there are still real people in the world.

What is not welcome is the fact that Tony's going over documents which Lex knows for a fact were sealed or destroyed years ago. The Belle Reve logo glares out at the world next to _Luthor, Lex_ and _electroshock therapy_.

"Coffee?" Tony asks idly, navigating the furious silence with a practiced ease.

" _Stark_ ," Lex says crisply.

Tony's shoulders stiffen. "Not that again. We were doing so well," he sighs, hands quick and sure with a couple of mismatched mugs and what is presumably an elaborate espresso machine. It appears to be under construction, complicated circuitry gleaming out from the open casing. "Sit down, will you? I feel like you're about to go for my throat."

Lex seethes quietly. Then he grinds his teeth. Then he takes a seat on the long, sturdy-looking workbench.

"So this might not be awesome," Tony said, "But it _should_ be fantastic. I just invented it. Hopefully it will taste like unicorns and magic and childhood, but if it tastes like dirt, that's because it's—uh—cafe nouveau. Very high-end."

Lex takes the mug and holds it in his hands, the warmth seeping into his fingers.

Tony settles next to him on the bench, near enough that their shoulders touch. It's not really big enough for two people. Lex thinks about moving away, but that's as far as he gets—Tony has a talent for creeping into your personal space and staying there.

It's not as if we're friends, Lex thinks angrily. It was a handful of days; he's spent exponentially more time than that in the company of people he detests.

But it's possible he's gotten the wrong idea—Tony basically _giving away_ his product, Tony dragging him out to a bar, to dinner. The strange, haphazard phone calls for the first week before they steadily dwindled to nothing.

Lex hadn't realized how much he appreciated the interruptions until he'd gone four straight hours without looking up from his computer screen.

"Those records were sealed," he manages steadily.

"I had to do some digging," Tony admits.

Lex waits.

"So, uh. Yeah, this is pretty much exactly what it looks like." He shrugs, the motion stilted and close, and he glances furtively at Lex's face before taking a sip of his coffee. Then he glances down, surprised, and takes another. "Not bad."

Lex frowns severely.

"I was curious about you," Tony murmurs. "I know that, um, most people don't feel the need to exhaustively compile information on their business associates. But. We all have our little quirks, and you're—no offense, but you're pretty much on lockdown. You're a fascinating guy, Lex."

"You were curious," Lex echoes, bemused, "so you hacked into one of the most elusive high-security mental health facilities in the States, recovered purged data—"

"I never said the work wasn't cut out for me, but—"

"—and treated it as breakfast reading material." Lex purses his lips. There's a twinge in his temple; he feels a headache coming on. He gets them so rarely that it's more than a passing irritation. "Am I to assume you also have a secret stockpile of related news articles and court records somewhere?"

"Well yeah, I took care of the light research before I met with you." He pauses critically. "You mean you don't? I had you pegged as the must-possess-all-variables type. It's really gonna wreck my worldview if I find out you're not."

Lex wets his lips, caught off-guard, and goes over a short list of possible responses. He chooses none of them, instead following a strange new inclination to tell the truth. "There have been people in my life who did not take kindly to my—investigative tendencies. I have since tried to limit the compulsion."

Tony's fingers flutter thoughtfully on his coffee mug, reminding Lex to take a sip of his own. It's—actually very good. Strong, bracing, but without a bitter aftertaste. He takes a second, longer drink and holds it in his mouth like fine wine.

"Pepper never liked me checking up on her, either," Tony mentions. "Clearly we've been hanging out with the wrong crowd."

"You could have asked," Lex hears himself say.

"Funnily enough, I don't think you would've been very forthcoming. But this is better—can we talk about what a fucking monster Lionel Luthor was?"

Lex lowers his cup and stares at him.

"I just mean," Tony says, not half as awkward as he should be, "I would have hated knowing and not actually being able to ask about it. He was the one who checked you in—did he _really_ order electroshock therapy? I thought _my_ dad sucked."

"Lionel Luthor," Lex says carefully, "blamed me for my infant brother's death from the time I was nine years old. He would periodically use it as a source of trauma to trigger panic attacks, delusions, and mental breakdowns. He fed my paranoia to keep me under his thumb—," Lex meets Tony's eyes, steady and unyielding, "—but mostly it just caused me to became aggressively thorough at compiling blackmail material."

Tony sets his coffee on the worktable.

"Eventually I found out that he murdered his parents."

Tony swallows very carefully.

"He ordered the electroshock therapy to erase the weeks leading up to that discovery from my memory. Then he destroyed the evidence I had collected."

"My dad never loved me," Tony says. "But, I mean. He just ignored me most of the time, he never—never fucked around with my psyche."

"I'm aware," Lex says, suddenly tired.

"So. When you were poisoned. After Lionel went to prison? There's a footnote about some kind of seventy-two-hour blood purification process—"

"Mmhmm," Lex murmurs.

"Are you a mutant? Do you have a healing factor?" Tony asks. Lex glances at him, raising his eyebrows. No one has ever come right out and asked before.

"I'm not a mutant. Not in the way you mean," he says. "You've heard of the Smallville meteor shower?"

"Oh. One of those," Tony says, fidgeting. "Is it like—Wolverine?"

"If only," Lex half-smiles. "It's not even like Captain America. I never get sick and I metabolize toxins very quickly, but I only heal about twice as fast as normal."

"Can I buy you dinner?" Tony asks suddenly.

Lex opens his mouth. Lex closes his mouth.

"I feel pretty shitty about all this," Tony says. "I guess I just assumed you'd be doing the same thing."

Lex takes another sip of his coffee. At home on his personal computer, behind an eight-point security system with a fifteen minute decryption delay, there is an AVI file of Tony in Afghanistan. He's surrounded by masked men with guns, and there's blood on his chest soaking through hastily-wrapped bandages. He has cuts on his face and a black eye. Lex has transcripts of the original rough Arabic alongside two alternate translations in English.

In that same folder, there is security footage of the Mark One. The video quality is exceedingly poor, but every Mark file after that—up to and including a fireworks display on an oil tanker off the Miami coastline—is more than clear enough for practical reference. Lex is currently having a template prepared from one of the Mark Forty-Two stills for a commissioned wall mural.

The other videos—Tony at parties with starlets, Tony in hot tubs with models, Tony with persons indeterminate in the back seats of limos or, in at least one recorded instance, on the hood of a Maserati—provide nothing about him that isn't already general knowledge, other than a nice view.

"I can't," Lex finally says. "My schedule is locked up tight for the next few days. One of our larger accounts is changing hands. I'm only in town to charm the new management into renewing their LexCorp contracts."

"When are you leaving?"

"Wednesday night. Hosting a charity gala on Thursday."

Tony stands up to tinker restlessly with the espresso machine, movements brief and aimless as though he needs something to do with his hands . "Well, what are you doing right now?"

Lex presses his lips together thoughtfully. He has a business trip to be getting on with, and Tony at a slight disadvantage now that he believes he's misjudged Lex. Oddly, Lex doesn't feel any surging desire to capitalize on this.

Ultimately he decides, in one fell swoop, to forgive Tony's trespasses by revealing his own: "I was hoping you would tell me about Extremis."

* * *

"I mean, I already had the working equation—I had to come up with it to neutralize Pepper—so I thought, well, as long as it's here and I'm not weaponizing it, why not?"

It's getting on eleven, and Lex has to be at a lunch meeting in an hour. The reminder is persistent, but ultimately background noise to the frantic possibilities twisting together in his mind. "Personal use."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Don't make it sound worse than it is. I'm not patenting it. I'm not releasing the data. And it seemed like a really good idea at the time—"

" Like detonating the Iron Man suits?" Lex sips his delicious approximation of a mocha latte, vaguely in awe of a coffeemaker that accepts whatever random ingredients the user decides to experiment with—in this instance, Belgian chocolate—and automatically reconfigures itself to construct an optimum flavor profile. He wonders if Tony will considering selling it, or if Lex will have to steal it.

"Kind of the same story, really." Tony shrugs, his shoulder hitching in a way that's anything but careless. "The arc reactor was basically a keystone for the worst parts of our relationship . Anyway, with Extremis regenerating the damaged tissue, it was finally possible to extract the shrapnel. " He smiles flatly. "Seems to've fixed up my liver, too, god knows that was on its last leg."

The possibilities are endless: superhuman augmentation; anti-aging serums; limb, organ, and tissue regeneration. "Have you thought about—"

"No," Tony says firmly, shooting him a sharp look. "Stop. I can see your antivillain brain folding all over itself from here. Quit hatching nefarious plots to steal money from old ladies by offering them eternal youth."

"I don't see how a fair deal is _stealing_ —"

"It's off the table, Lex," Tony says. "Do you want to stay at the Tower while you're in New York?"

Lex stares at him, completely derailed, and scrambles to reassemble an idea about Extremis and applied nanotechnology. "What?"

"We could have breakfast or something," Tony says, "one of these days. Since you have dinner meetings every night. Maybe watch a movie." At Lex's incredulous expression, he quickly adds, "Or work quietly on our separate professional tasks in the same office. You know. Just hang out."

Tony isn't looking at him. Lex can't look away.

"No," he says slowly. Then he reaches out and touches Tony's shoulder, which has dipped alarmingly. "But I will the next time I'm in town. We can do those things."

Tony glances up from his orange-chocolate-peppermint chimera-coffee. There's a bit of foam on the corner of his mouth.

"If you want," Lex clarifies.

Tony sips his drink, licking his lips clean. Then he nods, stiff and businesslike and very obviously pleased. "Consider it a standing offer."

* * *

The problem with charity functions is that hosting one presents a neatly gift-wrapped opportunity for criminal attacks on your person. Specifically, Lex thinks around the cold circle of metal shoved up under his jaw, abduction for ransom.

He's had enough guns in his face to last a dozen lifetimes. He finds the exercise tacky and graceless, and its frequency in his life a great source of irritation.

At least they scaled the walls instead of coming in through the mansion. He's grown quite attached to the Persian carpets, and marble is criminally easy to clean by comparison.

"You're making a mistake," Lex mentions, bored out of his mind. "I don't think I'm the man you're looking for." There are three figures on the balcony with him, dressed seamlessly in black. One of them locks the ornate French doors while Lex's guests carry on, oblivious, just inside. It's for the best; the fewer involved, the better.

Mercy has undoubtedly noted his absence, and will make his excuses while unobtrusively radioing his security detail. In the event of an emergency or complication, her orders are explicit: any and all LexCorp functions will continue on entirely as intended, and Lex himself will be safely retrieved before any lasting damage is done. She does not have the luxury of prioritizing.

One of the two men—he thinks the third might be female, but it's difficult to tell—moves behind him to bind his wrists. Lex wonders how long this will take; he has a seven o'clock meeting tomorrow morning with one of Tony's contractors.

"If I _am_ the man you are looking for," Lex continues conversationally, casually baiting them in a vain effort to hurry this along, "you're either debilitatingly stupid or imminently suicidal. I trust you realize you're being appallingly underpaid for this venture."

Cue cold-cocking, Lex thinks blearily, pain blooming high on his cheek. He probably ought to know better by now.

Guns in my face. Guns _on_ my face, he adds to the growing list of things he no longer cares to experience. The world flickers and fades to black.

* * *

In the dream, he's ten years younger and waking up on slick, wet dirt. It's a cold day, overcast, and Clark's hovering over him like a Renaissance angel. Cherubic curls and flush lips, eyes so impossibly sincere that they come out the other side of what it means to be honest: you chase it down, you do everything you can to get your hands on it, but the truth only leads you at top speed into a brick wall. And not even once are you ever allowed to touch it. You never even get close.

Lex, clammy and aching on the bank, his lungs on fire, his clothes clinging heavy and wet to his hollowed-out body, breathes in deep. Something familiar and new shivers just beneath the flesh of his lips.

Clark watches him. Lex hadn't understood, before, about blue eyes: how they're constructed from the atmospheres of distant worlds, how they leak into your chest and soothe you, overtake you. How you're eviscerated at length until you seek their approval and love, and how those things become as vital to you as sunlight and air and water.

He hadn't known. And then this awful, beautiful, infuriating and flawless kid came into his life, and even in the waking world, Lex doesn't have it in him to wish they'd never met.

All he can do is ask, in this place that belongs to nothing and no one but a shocked brain's random access memory: Do you regret it?

Clark, the Clark who saw Lex for the first time and saved his life—the Clark ignorant of everything that comes after—this Clark says, There was more to us than the bad parts.

Says, There's us and there's _us_.

He touches Lex's face. Lex wakes up.

Close and curving above him, taking up the whole of Lex's vision, Clark is here with him on this side of things, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lex snorts. "Overzealous isn't your color."_

Lex turns his head, hitches his breath at the sharp, shifting ache on his face. There's a pillow beneath his cheek, a vaguely familiar Matisse on the wall, and a blanket of darkness outside the windows. He's probably in one of the guest bedrooms. "How long was I out?"

"Who were those guys, Lex?" Clark asks, anger warring with confusion on his face, colored through with worry. But it isn't Clark at all; it's Superman. Lex wishes there wasn't a such a mortal difference between the two.

"Oh, we're back to using first names? I didn't get the memo." Lex pushes himself onto his elbows. The world stutters around him, skips a beat, and Superman gently presses him back down. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Tell me what's going on," Superman orders, straightening. The heat of his hand hasn't left Lex's chest.

Lex wants to close his eyes and wake up somewhere else, preferably alone, or possibly in a universe where they are two completely different people having a completely different conversation.

Superman is scowling, but he must read something in Lex's face that concerns him. He relaxes into a regular frown. "Are you all right? That was a pretty hard hit."

Now you're asking? Lex thinks scathingly. "Don't you have a pair of would-be assailants to incarcerate?"

"It's taken care of." Superman's face is unreadable, but then he shifts his weight: a rare hallmark from the old days, when Clark could lie to you with his whole face but never quite mask the guilty language of his body.

Lex snorts. "Overzealous isn't your color."

"Lex," he says again, and that name, that _voice_ —he can almost pretend they're kids again, like in the dream. Before the lies built up between them like rot, before dishonesty eroded their friendship from the inside out. "What did they want from you?"

"What do you think?" Lex snaps, more than ready for this conversation to be over. "Is it so hard to believe that some people just want my money?"

"So this isn't about the—arc reactor?"

Lex frowns. "The renewable energy project? Why would it be?"

"Iron Man is a hero and Tony Stark is a good man," Superman argues, like Lex might actually disagree. "Why is he working with you? "

" _That_ 's what this is about?" Lex demands, incredulous. "You pulled your big hero routine and sequestered me in a spare room so you could grill me about _Tony Stark_?"

Superman looks taken aback.

"Were you _watching me sleep_? Does Mercy even know I'm here?" Lex shouts. "Never mind. Go away."

Superman takes a stiff step back. "I'm not an idiot. I know something's up, and I'm going to find out what."

"Go. A _way_."

Superman goes.

* * *

Later, it isn't the dream that keeps him awake for hours. It isn't even the matter of Clark barging into his life like the old days, which shakes loose more than a few difficult memories.

It's the question, insidious and sick, of whether or not he _meant_ to wait until Lex was knocked out before coming to his rescue.

* * *

"So I just had an interesting visitor. How is your face? Are you disfigured? Has it healed yet?"

"Good morning, Tony," Lex sighs.

"Were you just not going to tell me? Your boyscout's incredibly cut, by the way."

Lex's temper flares. He ignores whatever Tony's trying to fish around for about Cl—about Superman. "Tell you about w hat? The not-at-all unusual event of an attempt on my life? How about you? Have you received any death threats today that I should be made aware of?"

"Don't be a dick," Tony says flatly. "Are you in bed?"

Lex crushes his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. "No. I'm at the office," he says pointedly, "working."

"Did you see a doctor?"

Lex pauses, staring sightlessly at his laptop. It is quickly becoming apparent that he won't get any work done until Tony is satisfied. "Yes. No lasting damage. Are we finished?"

"Text me a photo," Tony demands.

"Goodbye," Lex says.

"If you don't, I'll have to come over and see for myself."

Lex pulls the phone away from his ear and glares at it angrily. Then he minimizes the phone conversation to take a selfie.

"Happy?" He growls after it's sent.

In the silence that follows, Lex can hear strange, mechanical sounds over the line—soft hums and faint chirps, a series of stilted, automatic beeps.

"Are you in pain?" Tony asks quietly.

Lex swallows at the unexpected concern in Tony's voice. There are people in his employ that manage his comfort and safety with a ruthless efficiency that is entirely worth their massive salaries. Genuine care for his well-being, however, is not something Lex typically experiences.

"I know it looks ugly," he says at last, "but it's not really that bad. The swelling has gone down and you won't even be able to see the cut in a few days. The only really tender spot is the heart-shaped bruise on the—on my cheekbone. The rest is superfluous."

"Okay. Okay," Tony says. "Call me when you're done working."

Lex does not call Tony when he's done working. Lex leaves his office around seven, changes into something comfortable and chic, and club-hops until he forgets his own name.

It's never a problem—everyone always knows exactly who he is.

* * *

He doesn't remember much after a pretty girl in a red dress sinks her nails into his neck; only that she has soft hair and sweet-smelling skin, and kisses him like they're on the set of _Titanic_. He isn't sure he's ever met a woman who could fake wanting him so convincingly, and solemnly promises to make her night worthwhile in every conceivable manner.

The problem is that, instead of drunkenly fumbling them up to his penthouse, Lex finds himself on the other side of the city, standing outside the old Cadmus labs, hunched over and cold and very much alone. The wind scythes through his light clothing, slinks beneath it like wet fingers, and his scalp prickles from the chill.

He doesn't remember coming here, if he drove or if he took a cab; he doesn't remember what happened to his pretty companion. He's sure he hasn't slept, so the feeling of coming awake coupled with the bonelessness of alcoholic exhaustion slowly chips away at the edges of his awareness. He could be dying in a gutter; he could be mindless in a cell at Belle Reve; he could be a snake dreaming of life as a dragon. It's not as though he'd know the difference.

Lex sighs, banishing the thoughts. Real or otherwise, he can work only with what he has.

His keycard lets him through a more sophisticated security system than an unused property should generally warrant. The complex is deserted and dark, and he picks his way through to the elevators by the light of his cellphone.

The smooth descent into the lower levels echoes distantly in the empty space, and Lex does not think; and does not think; and does not think. His glossy black shoes carry him by rote to the restricted test facilities furthest from the surface, from Metropolis and Superman, from the burden of the mantle of Lex Luthor.

The only sounds are the low rumble of a new, lethally powerful generator and the watery vibrations of oxygenated fluid. The only light in the room is a splash of bright teal staining the brushed-steel walls and floor.

Lex studies the stasis chamber for a long time. With access to a stronger and more consistent power source, the subject within has already reached adolescence. He places his palm against the glass, directly over the etched _Kr_ , and tries to feel a human connection to the DNA suspended before him.

Then he slides to his knees, sets his phone alarm for four-thirty—two hours from now—and pillows his head on his arms.

* * *

It might have been love, or it might have been something else entirely. Regardless, between the black eyes and cracked bones—between Clark's violent, alien reactions to alien materials and his general propensity for disaster—between Clark's admiration and faith, his judgement and distrust—all Lex has ever wanted a piece of him that would last.

Lex has allowed the erosion of affection, the grimy buildup of mistrust and, later, abhorrence. But that doesn't mean he didn't take everything he could get.

* * *

Lex doesn't hear from Tony for the next week, but he catches glimpses of Clark and Superman both, peripherally, enough that he's gone beyond suspicion into healthy paranoia. Clark dogs him to all three of his media events, asking pointed questions about arc technology and the new power grid, tedious and completely unrelated to the topic at hand. Additionally, there seems to be an ever-present splash of red and blue outside of Lex's office window, though he never gets a clear look.

Thursday afternoon, he picks up his phone.

"What," Tony says shortly.

"What did he tell you," Lex asks.

Tony makes an incredulous sound over the line. "Oh, _now_ you're interested. Painkillers finally kick in?"

"Did he tell you not to contact me?"

"Lex," Tony huffs, "The first thing I _did_ was contact you."

Lex presses his forehead into his palm and closes his eyes.

"You doing all right? How's your face, are you pretty again?"

Lex snorts. "Everything's fine, Tony." Then he pauses, trying to put together the words he needs for the thing he wants. It would be easier if he had any idea where to begin on either front.

"Hey, so. That antique shop still around? Wanna go check it out this weekend?" Tony asks lightly, bypassing the issue of Lex's frustration and loneliness like it's nothing, like he's known all along or like he doesn't even mind it. Like he still considers them friends.

"I think so," Lex says slowly. "What time were you thinking?"

"I'll pick you up tomorrow."

"Tony—"

"Nine. Take the day off. We can have breakfast."

Lex has a conference call with the Russian prime minister at nine. He's rescheduled once already. "Sunday?"

"That is too many days from now," Tony says. "Ten?"

"I can probably clear my schedule for lunch," Lex compromises.

"Not good enough," Tony says flatly. "Unless you clear everything _after_ lunch, too. And stay out of the office this weekend."

Lex waits.

"I have a surprise for you," Tony adds.

"You're relentless," Lex tells him, when what he means is _exhausting_ and _fantastic_.

"I'm told it's my worst quality. See you tomorrow."

"Tony," Lex says, very clearly and slowly the next afternoon. "From whom did you steal this child."

"Harley, meet Lex," Tony says, tilting his sunglasses up. "He's also a mechanic. Mostly. Not as cool as me, though."

Lex presses his lips together.

"Does he always look like that?" The child called Harley asks curiously, his hair bright blond over brighter eyes. Tony's dressed him in a long-sleeved Iron Man t-shirt, because he is self-aggrandizing and egomaniacal.

"Mostly, but you get used to it," Tony says. "Lunch?"

The child called Harley, Lex puts together very quickly, is named for his mother. He is brilliant, contemplative, and enthusiastic. He has a lot to say, and between him and Tony, Lex can't manage to get a word in edgewise.

"Gotta pee, can you diagram the working model?" Harley asks. "I can't find one online."

"Yeah, someone keeps killing the guys who try to patent it." Tony says, reaching for a pen. When Harley leaves, Lex grabs Tony sharply by the elbow.

"Are you _out of you mind_ ," he hisses, low and serious.

Tony stiffens. "That obvious, huh?"

"To anyone with eyes who's ever been to Gotham," Lex snaps. "Do you think no one's going to come looking for him? Do you think _he_ isn't?"

"I don't think _he_ knows," Tony says quietly. "And since the kid was at a friend's house when they busted her—"

"Someone tipped them off," Lex says. "Someone knows. Quinzel's been under the radar for—what, eight years? Nine?"

Tony's mouth twists. "Ten. They aren't looking for him, Lex. They got Quinzel and Harley's little sister—"

"Jesus," Lex swears, trying not to imagine a terrified little girl watching as her mother is dragged away by a SWAT team.

"—but her dad's still alive, came to pick her up as soon as they called. I mean, I thought the guy was a deadbeat for walking out on his wife and kids, but if he was married to _that_ lunatic—"

Lex tunes Tony out, fits the pieces together. Manhandles it into making sense just as Harley starts back over to them from the restrooms.

"He doesn't know who his real father is," Lex says.

"He doesn't know there's a real father to know about." Tony's lips flatten into a thin line, his fingers loose as he doodles on the napkin. He doesn't meet Lex's eyes.

"That's. That's not a hydrogen engine, Tony," Harley frowns when he joins them, up on his knees on the chair and leaning over the table. "That's a frowny face."

"Sometimes," Tony says testily, "things look like other things."

"But you gave it eyebrows," Harley points out matter-of-factly. "Mean ones."

Over the course of the next several hours—after they finish lunch, Tony insists on visiting the Museum of Science and Industry—Lex comes, very slowly, to a significant realization.

It starts with Tony and Harley bickering like little kids, except while also having complicated technical conversations and Tony talking to Harley like he's just a really tiny adult, rather than an innocent ten-year-old.

It ends with Harley falling asleep after dinner, in the back of Lex's car. Mercy is carefully expressionless when Tony asks her for her jacket.

"You can't keep him, Tony," Lex finally says. Tony's just tucking the severe military collar around Harley's neck. The kid's out like a light.

"The fuck I can't," Tony says. "He's—"

Lex waits, but Tony doesn't say anything else. He stands with his shoulders slumped, half under a streetlight, while the limo idles and Harley sleeps in the backseat. While Lex watches him without expression.

"Lex," Tony whispers. "What will happen if I _don't_?"

Lex closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine.

Worst case scenario, the ranks of supervillainy swell by one crucial number. And Tony goes around looking like he's lost a limb.

"You're absolutely sure," Lex says softly.

"She was using a forged birth certificate," Tony says. "Enough to get through school in Buttfuck, Tennessee, but it wouldn't've held up for a passport or a driver's license. There are no official records of him anywhere—no hospitals, no medical files, no social security card or state IDs. I checked," he says firmly. "And then I, ah. Erased his school records."

Lex exhales very slowly. "If you can wait until Wednesday, I'll have my people work up the documentation. I'm not sure how you'll want to handle the adoption or the resulting press frenzy, but once he has a new social security card, you can enroll him in one of the accelerated programs at—uhghck."

"Thanks," Tony says, his arms tight around Lex's waist for the barest instant, his face pressed against Lex's briefly enough that it might never have happened. "From a superhero to an antivillain. Sincerely. Thanks." Then he's looking into the limo again, his hands nervous, his face determined.

You're welcome, Lex tries, but the words won't fit around pressure in his throat. So he just nods, even though Tony isn't looking at him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Captain America doesn't come in uniform. He comes in casual tan slacks and a soft gray button-down, with a navy tie, but he stands at attention like a soldier. His golden hair is carefully parted, and he has a way of looking at you that's really just him looking straight ahead. His famous shield is nowhere to be seen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between updates! Please enjoy.
> 
> Also--shameless plug for my webcomic, [Behind the Throne](http://www.btt.webcomic.ws/comics/first), which is officially halfway to completion! So if you feel like binge-reading chapter one and then waiting another six months before reading the rest (I know, weekly updates suck), now would be the time to do it <3

"I insist," Lex says, not quite understanding why. Mercy's carrying Harley without expression, her eyes sliding periodically to Lex's as the three of them take the elevator to the top floor of the Midtown suite. "There's plenty of space."

Tony nods, moving to take the kid from Mercy, but she raises her eyebrows. "He's not a sack of potatoes, Stark," she huffs, and puts Harley to bed herself.

"Insubordination," Tony says, watching her to distraction. "Sexy."

"Severe soft-tissue damage," Mercy replies. "Imminent."

Tony clears his throat. Mercy dismisses herself, her mouth a thin smirk, but Lex is sure they'll have the  _I'm not your fucking babysitter_  conversation in the near future.

"Pick whatever room you want," Lex tells Tony. "East side of the building has the best view."

Tony casts his eyes around briefly, then makes a beeline for the liquor cart. He helps himself to a bourbon older than Lex. "And the West side?"

"Doesn't," Lex replies shortly, thinking of his huge, empty bed and the way the dull morning light fades in gradually from a sky lit opposite the rising sun. He meets Tony's eyes over glass and clear amber. "What did you tell the ex-husband?"

The expression on Tony's face is utterly unfamiliar. "You'll have to be more specific."

"He took custody of his daughter and not his son. I'm sure I won't be unique in finding that odd," Lex adds pointedly.

Tony shoots the rest of his bourbon, his throat flashing in the low light, and Lex understands: Tony feels  _guilt_.

"So I'm assuming he was given a plausible explanation."

"It wasn't a lie," Tony insists quickly, though Lex has said nothing to the contrary. "It just wasn't—the whole truth."

Lex frowns, deeply and with mounting dismay; the moral highground is the least of his present concerns. "You did  _not_ tell him that he wasn't Harley's father."

"Well, no," Tony swallows awkwardly. "Not personally."

You absolute  _moron_ , Lex thinks wildly. " _Harleen Quinzel_  has resurfaced from obscurity, and reporters from New York to Central City will be banging down the doors of everyone she's ever  _waited tables for_  in the last ten years—and you  _told her estranged ex-husband that Harley wasn't his son_?"

"Lex—"

"He'll tell his sob story to the first journalist—"

"Lex."

"—whole goddamned internet speculating as to whether or not he's the Joker's son—"

" _Lex_."

Lex looks up, despairing. It's too big to cover up, the pieces are there for the  _entire world to see_ , and Tony's—Tony's looking at him like everything will be okay anyway.

"He's not gonna talk," Tony says simply. "I sent some guys over to—no, stop it, don't make this dirty, I wasn't gonna kill the guy."

"Perish the thought," Lex murmurs.

"I know you were thinking it, you antivillains are all the same." Tony sniffs. "Anyway—he was terrified when he saw her face on the news. First he'd seen of her in years. He'd had no idea." He takes a breath. "I made it clear I was pulling some strings to get him and the little sister into WITSEC, and maybe I implied it would be to his detriment to mention his past relationship with Quinn to anybody, in any capacity, and maybe I gave him some money." He exhales. It's a mouthful.

"I trust you weren't represented in an official capacity?" Lex asks, his mind racing, searching out all the ways this might blow up in Tony's face.

"Not a whisper," he says, looking guilty again.

Abruptly, Lex realizes that Tony  _feels bad_  for having to scare someone a little before paying them off. Of all the ridiculous things. But a second thought follows: Tony probably hasn't had to do this kind of thing before.

Lex forces himself to let go his panic, and focuses on the details. "What about Harley's friends? Teachers? Even if you've scrubbed the grid, you can't account for everyone he's ever met."

Tony shrugs. "It's not perfect, but it'll do for now. Anyone tries to come forward, well, we'll cross that bridge while it's burning."

Lex sinks bonelessly into an adequately-stuffed leather chair. "You walk a thin line, Tony," Lex tells him. This day has already been too much for him.

Tony takes a seat on the ottoman and hitches an ankle up over his knee. The room is temperature-controlled, but he's close enough that Lex can feel his body heat. "I do okay."

They sit together like that for a time, quiet and companionable, the silence broken only by Tony's occasional swallow of bourbon.

An idea shifts around awkwardly in Lex's mind, misshapen and strange until it snaps suddenly taut into place. Thoughtfully, he asks, "Did  _you_ drop the tip about Quinzel? To get to Harley after she was arrested?"

For the first and only time in their acquaintance, Tony chokes on his liquor. He neatly wipes the ridge of his hand over his mouth, then sets the tumbler down on the floor with rigid fingers.

Lex snorts. "And  _I'm_  the antivillain."

"He commented sarcastically," Tony narrates, "shameless in his disregard for the fact that, even then, he was siphoning off criminal levels of energy from his trusting and affectionate partner's genius invention." His voice is matter-of-fact, but there's a distinct edge to it. "Look, I don't pester  _you_  about every detail of  _your_  personal life. I'm quite sure there is nothing nefarious whatsoever about that secret underground base of yours."

Lex gets to his feet, careful not to touch any part of Tony's body. "Glad to have cleared that up. Don't even think about leaving that glass on the floor, it's from the eighteen-eighties."

"That's what I like about us," Tony says cheerfully to his back. "We don't judge each other."

"Well, if we're going by my sterling reputation," Lex says, pausing in the doorway, "certainly you're above reproach."

* * *

He processes the adoption early the next morning, while Tony is still presumably asleep, going through one of his father's paper charities. It's the same establishment Lionel Luthor used for one Clark Kent.

As an afterthought, Lex draws up some preliminary paperwork for another individual, his hand nervous and hesitant. Eventually, he writes:

_Conner Luthor Kent_.

* * *

"You're an artist," Tony says over the phone, a week later. "This is airtight."

He sounds impressed, and well he should be—it was an excellent piece of legal and bureaucratic craftsmanship.

"You're welcome," Lex says, reading through a grant proposal. A local nonprofit is petitioning for another LexCorp-funded research facility. Wearily, he signs off on it.

"Harley starts school next week," Tony says apologetically. Lex refocuses on the conversation with main force, perplexed until Tony elaborates: "So I can't properly thank you for all of this. But maybe—the eighteenth?"

They haven't talked about the old Cadmus labs again. Tony hasn't even asked Lex if powering them off the main grid was the entire purpose for installing an arc reactor in Metropolis to begin with.

But they've talked about everything else—Tony calls almost every day, mostly about Harley.

"The eighteenth," Lex repeats, pulling up his event calendar. He mentally crosses off the nine AM diplomats breakfast in Corpus Christi, currently scheduled for the nineteenth. "I'll be free after seven. What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. Surprise me."

Lex clears his throat.

"Fine, fine," Tony amends. "I'll come up with something."

"To thank me," Lex clarifies, "for legitimizing your illegitimate child."

"That's a very bad word, and I'll thank you not to use it in his hearing. Which could honestly be anywhere at the moment, I'm pretty sure the little bastard's tapped my phones."

"That is absolutely precious," Lex murmurs dryly. "How can you stand it."

"Get outta here, man," Tony laughs. "Remember: seven. The eighteenth. Don't be late."

"Where—?" Lex begins to ask, but Tony's already hung up.

* * *

If Lex is honest about it, the man in his office the next morning has taken him by utter, disastrous surprise. It's not that he never expected an eventual meeting—in truth, he expected it sooner—but Lex finds himself at a loss, and unprepared, and frantic at what catastrophe of mental disorganization could have lead to either of these states of being.

With deliberate and unhurried motions, Lex shelves his misgivings and minimizes his inbox, turns off his monitor and sets aside his tablet and a couple of hard-copy contracts. Then he folds his hands and exudes cool professionalism.

Captain America doesn't come in uniform. He comes in casual tan slacks and a soft gray button-down, with a navy tie, but he stands at attention like a soldier. His golden hair is carefully parted, and he has a way of looking at you that's really just him looking straight ahead. His famous shield is nowhere to be seen.

"Mister Rogers," Lex greets neutrally, even as his mind begins to construct possible responses for the inevitable lecture about friendships across enemy lines.

"Mister Luthor," Steve says. Then, surprising Lex for the second time in as many minutes, he extends his hand with a sincere, "Nice to meet you."

Really, Lex almost asks. But he takes Steve's hand and gives it a perfunctory shake. "Likewise. To what do I owe the attention of a national icon?"

Steve, bizarrely, looks uncomfortable. "I'm not here in a—in an official capacity. I was in the area. Thought I'd stop by." He stands awkwardly for a moment until Lex motions to one of the chairs, which he gratefully takes. "You been working out some kinda deal with Tony?"

Several, actually. But Lex, still unsure whether or not this is an attack, leans back and asks, "The power grid?"

"Yeah. That's a really good thing you're doing. Tony's started working on one back in New York, too." He pauses, resting his hands on his thighs. "Not really sure why he didn't think of it sooner."

"It's not a good business model," Lex explains with a one-shouldered shrug. "That makes things complicated when you're answering to a board of directors."

Steve makes a face. "Wasn't under the impression that sorta thing was an issue for him."

"When one chooses not to run one's company like a corporate dictatorship, one occasionally encounters the odd legal restriction."

Steve nods thoughtfully, glancing out of Lex's crystal-clear office windows. Lex follows his gaze, reminded of Tony's first visit: how they'd stood shoulder-to-shoulder like two kings allying themselves for the good of the people.

How Tony had taken Lex's measure that day and, bizarrely, deemed him worthy. In spite of everything.

Distracted, Lex adds, "You should give him more credit. I expected it to take two or three weeks just to get a cost estimate for the project, but he had it on my desk the next morning. That wouldn't have been possible unless he already had the documentation drawn up for New York; he just swapped out the numbers to make it work for Metropolis."

Steve looks over at Lex with blue eyes, deeper and darker than Lex's own. A shadowy blue, lacking clarity or transparency. They seem miscast for their role; for someone possessed of such a stony demeanor, Steve Rogers is woefully sincere. "That's—good to hear, Mister Luthor. Tony, I know he tries. But sometimes I worry he misses the point." Steve smiles in a way that changes his whole face. "I'm glad you've been working together."

Lex frowns. "I'm not sure I—you  _are_  aware of my reputation amongst the acting powers?"

"Bits and pieces," Steve admits. "But you also help a lotta people. I respect that. And I wasn't really around for your—earlier stuff. Guess time will tell." He pauses, then gets to his feet. "Though I don't suppose many legal restrictions apply to LexCorp," he says after a moment.

"LexCorp is not a corporate democracy," Lex replies.

Steve smiles again, a warm flash of humor. Surprising Lex once again, he extends his hand. "Well. Keep Tony outta trouble when he's in town."

* * *

"There is something we should discuss," Mercy says, shutting and locking Lex's heavy office door. It's late; he's keeping her up by working all hours of the night, but she's never complained once.

"I don't pay you to be curious," he tells her, not looking away from his screen. There's no heat to his words: he lost that battle when he made her his second-in-command. It wouldn't do to let appearances slip, however.

"I'm not asking about Cadmus," she replies blithely, "or the interesting and noteworthy composition of the egg you're currently incubating."

Lex leans back in his chair and looks at her. Pretty and fearless, harsh and fair, strong and affectionate.

"Superman's been sniffing around the warehouse," she says. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Lex presses his finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. "Has he broken in yet?"

"He's not exactly what you'd call subtle, so no, not yet. But I can see it happening if you give him anything to go on."

There's nothing to go on. The facility isn't even shielded with lead, because that would draw his attention like the movement of a rat in a cornfield draws a hawk. Lex has gotten into the practice of lead-lining the facilities he  _wants_  Clark to know about.

Instead, the old Cadmus labs look like any other abandoned factory from the outside, and via x-ray. The real secrets are hidden deeper than anyone would have any reason to look.

"Do you have surveillance?"

"I've uploaded the feed to your private encrypted server."

Lex pulls it up on his laptop without ceremony while Mercy leans against the door with her arms crossed. It comes up in clear, brilliant color: high-definition, enhanced for night recording. The clothes might be Superman, but the posture is all Clark; hesitant, a little frustrated, a little guilty-boyscout. He creeps around and peeks inside windows, kicks some dirt across the steps that Lex himself, not too long ago, had drunkenly navigated.

Lex holds his breath while Clark reaches for the door handle; it would take nothing to open it, a monster like him. It would tear apart like styrofoam. But Clark doesn't do it.

He shoots one last look at the building, frowning. Maybe he looks lost, but maybe Lex is projecting. Then he pushes off into the sky like he was never there at all.

"Lex—," Mercy says sharply, an unusual note of concern in her voice.

"Take no action for now," Lex interrupts. "Just let me know if he comes back. Dismissed."

There's a beat of silence, and Lex knows Mercy is debating on whether or not to push him. She's spooked—it's not like her. But all she says is, "Sir."

After she goes, Lex rests his face in his hands, wondering if Clark had seen him there that night. If he'd watched Lex fumble his way inside. If he'd followed Lex's form with his x-ray vision down the elevator shaft until Lex had disappeared.

It's when he lowers his hands to his desk that he notices the small rainbow of moisture on the dark wood. He touches his cheek, awed and unnerved at the wetness there.

Shit, he thinks. No wonder Mercy was so worried. I'm losing my goddamn mind.

* * *

If he's honest with himself, Lex has no idea when, if ever, he actually meant to  _activate_  the subject. The entire endeavor had stemmed from an idea he couldn't escape, a philosophy that combined Clark's powers and Lex's ambition, his resourceful and maybe some of Clark's conscience.

_Project Kr_  had represented, at its conception, an ideal: the best elements of both parties, joined together without the distrust or dishonesty that had so plagued their friendship—but maybe retaining some of the love that had been there, once, at the beginning.

Regardless, it is done. Lex assigns a team to retrofit Cadmus Labs for a more media-friendly enterprise, and no one asks or speaks about the blindingly state-of-the-art life-support capsule, empty and so recently of use.

The sealed crate delivered to Lex's penthouse earlier in the day has, ostensibly, quite little to do with the loud, crowded, LexCorp-branded renovations of an old, abandoned warehouse.

Mercy confirms that Superman is skulking around nearby, keeping an eye on the process: conveniently looking the other way, because the big idiot never did have a head for bait-and-switch.

In his master bathroom, Lex breaks down the crate with care. He dissembles the temporary acrylic holding container in a half-full jacuzzi the size of a car, his sleeves and pant legs rolled up. In the muggy heat, with nutrient-rich fluid leaking over his chest and arms, Lex pulls the clean, new body from confinement.

It— _he_ —smells sterile, but strangely metallic. His dark hair sticks to his face, thick with colorless blood, and Lex angles him forward and brings his fist down, hard, into the center of a pale, muscular, half-familiar back.

The body shudders in Lex's arms, chokes and struggles and coughs. Lex holds onto him for an eternity of seconds, trying not place whose narrow teenaged body he has, whose bony shoulders, whose strong arms.

He jerks backward, knocking Lex off-balance and onto his knees with a splash and a dull thud. His eyes are bright and wide open: a watery, crystalline blue. Lex meets them. They are the same eyes he sees in the mirror each morning.

In the warm, oily water, in the arms of his father who has birthed him out of whole cloth, Conner Luthor Kent breathes in for the first time.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Rival](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030468) by [hannahrhen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen)




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